


Sweet Nothings

by Ally147



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, blatant Neville fanservice, seduction via sexy notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 16:07:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5381537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ally147/pseuds/Ally147
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Hermione took the heavy tome to a free table and flipped the inside cover open. She made a curious noise at her first discovery: not a title page like she expected, but a folded piece of paper, thin as tissue and pink as rose petals.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Nothings

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the 2015 Hermione Smut Fest using the prompt 'Hermione keeps finding hidden love notes in the library'. I've been pretty light on with the actual 'smut', but I hope Sexy!Neville makes up for it!
> 
>  _Mo grá_ , provided Google Translate hasn’t steered me wrong, translates to something like ‘my love’ in Irish.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter is the property of J. K Rowling and Warner Bros and lots of other peeps in between with their hands in the proverbial pie. No copyright infringement is intended, no monetary gain has been made.

All around her, hands ticked, eyes roved and feet twitched. There were scant seconds before class finished, but Hermione held herself still, her focus as narrow as a predatory hawk even as her classmates strained to gather their items and shove them into their waiting bags.

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

“That will be all for this evening, class,” Professor Spout announced with her usual good cheer. She continued over the noise of chairs scraping and excited chatter, “Suggested titles for further reading are written on the board for those interested.” With a flourish of her wand, a short list of titles appeared on the board, written in vines. Hermione tore a square of lined paper from her notebook and swapped to a ballpoint pen to jot the titles down.

“Are you coming, Hermione?” asked a soft voice above her.

She glanced up and met Neville Longbottom’s eyes only inches from hers. He flushed a deep red and pulled back, his hand coming up to cover a nervous cough. “Sorry,” he said.

“It’s fine.” She pushed the scrap of parchment into her robe pocket and packed her bag. “I won’t be a moment, Neville. You can go on without me.”

He gave a shy smile and hitched the strap of his bag further up his arm. “I can wait.”

Hermione felt her cheeks heat as she closed her thick binder and attempted to shove it into her bag. It was overfull already, and the edges of the binder caught on the frayed fabric at the opening. Without a word, and before she could hex the bag into flames, Neville reached over and held the bag open for her, pulling the edges out into a wide mouth.

She smiled, grateful, as she slipped the binder in and fastened the clasps of her bag. “Thank you.”

He shrugged and gave a sheepish smile. “It’s no problem.”

She stood and slung her bag over her shoulder. Together, they left the greenhouse and fell into a synchronised step towards the castle doors.

“Would you like to join me in the library after dinner?” she asked. “I need to get started on the potions essay.”

“The essay isn’t due for another month,” he teased, nudging her with his elbow. He was quiet for a moment, then let out a heavy sigh. “I guess I’ll join you,” he said, kicking at a stone on the path. “I’ll need all the help I can get on it.” 

“Stop saying things like that, Neville,” she admonished. “You’re far smarter than you give yourself credit for.”

He smiled again, that same smile that roused her pulse into a frantic tattoo. “Thanks.”

As they reached the main doors, Neville paused. “I’ll catch up with you,” he said. “I need to grab something from my room.”

“Must be quiet in there now,” she commented. “With Harry and Ron not here this year.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” He let out a chuckle. “I share with Cormac now.”

“Cormac?” Hermione scrunched up her nose. “Really?”

“I know you don’t like him – and probably for good reason – but he and I have been friends since we were young,” Neville told her. “He’s a… handful, but he’s a good bloke. He’s helped me a lot over the years.”

“Oh,” she mumbled, blushing. So many things she still didn’t know about this man! “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t think you would,” he said, kindly. He moved towards the stairs and paused for only a second to toss a wink – a wink! – at her, over his shoulder. “I’ll see you at dinner, Hermione.”

As he rounded the staircase and disappeared out of sight, Hermione felt herself relax. How Neville had come to have such an effect on her, she could only guess.

Proximity, the logical part of her mind reasoned. Harry and Ron took the offer to fast-track them to Aurors and disappeared from her life – bar the occasional note to brag about their accomplishments, which she could never begrudge them – quicker than Crookshanks to a bowl of tuna. On coming back for the voluntary eighth year, the first person to greet her, to share her carriage, to sit beside her at dinner, to make her laugh, had been Neville.

Neville, whom the shallow, girlish, teenager inside her had to acknowledge, was gorgeous. Whose body had firmed and lengthened in an utter celebration of lithe muscles; whose voice had deepened to a low, smooth rumble, with the lingering hint of an Irish brogue that gave her goose-bumps.

And yet he was still the sweet, grounded, considerate, endearing man he’d always been. 

Sighing, Hermione hefted her bag higher on her shoulder and followed the throngs of students making their way to the Great Hall for dinner.

Dinner was as lavish as always, pies and casseroles and vegetables in roasting tins lined the tables, with baskets of buttered buns and carafes of juices and water interspersed between. Her fork was primed with a chunk of chicken from the cacciatore and poised at her lips when Neville finally made an appearance, shooting her a quick grin before sliding into the empty seat beside her and piling up his own plate. She took a deep breath in and smelled cinnamon.

“Hello again, Hermione.”

“What took you so long?” she asked.

“Nothing important,” he replied with a flippant wave of his hand. “Just had to collect something.”

“What?” she prodded.

He chuckled, making her insides melt. “Never you mind.” His eyes widened and passed over the selection in front of them. “Ooh, is that chicken cacciatore? Is it good?”

Her eyes narrowed at the deflection, but she let it slide. “It’s delicious.”

“Thank Merlin. I’m starved.”

 _Good Lord_ , Hermione lamented as she watched him load his plate. _Even his manners are beautiful._

When the first forkful disappeared between his plump lips, she felt a swoop and a rush of heat in her belly. When his tongue darted out to capture a stray drop of sauce, she felt almost dizzy with something she was sure she didn’t even want to understand.

 _It’s just Neville_ , she told herself over and over again. Still, she didn’t look up from her plate for the rest of the meal, both thankful and apologetic that Neville deigned to keep quiet for the rest of the meal.

She stood to leave for the library as dessert appeared, taking a small custard tart with her as she went. Neville smiled at her as she hauled her bag back up to her shoulder.

“I’ll meet up with you soon,” he assured her. “But right now…” He gestured to the spread of cakes in front of him, a sheepish grin on his face. “I won’t take long, I promise.”

She shook her head and set her free hand down on his shoulder, feeling the subtle twitch and play of his muscles beneath her fingers. “Take your time,” she assured him.

Hermione nibbled on the tart as she wound her way through the halls to the large double doors of the library, wiping any remaining crumbs off her hands on her robes. She would need to take a good dollop of her antiseptic gel before she took hand to any of the books. 

The library was silent when she arrived. Everyone was still eating their pudding; not even Pince was around to scold her for her heavy footfalls as she scurried towards the Herbology section. The first of the recommended reading texts was a mercifully easy find, written by an Aurelius Aardvark: _Aquatic Plants of the Northern Hemisphere._

Hermione took the heavy tome to a free table and flipped the inside cover open. She made a curious noise at her first discovery: not a title page like she expected, but a folded piece of paper, thin as tissue and pink as rose petals. Hermione glanced from side to side, up and down, and once she was satisfied she was alone, she took the paper from the book and turned it in her hand.

She unfolded it, careful not to tear the delicate tissue, when her breath caught and died in her throat on the first word:

_Hermione,_

_Funny, isn’t it? That I can write these words and give them to you, but the idea of speaking them... I don’t think the idea of anything scares me more._

_I’m not sure you realise the effect you have on me. I don’t think you ever have – not even when we were children, so focussed were you on other things. Not when you were my first friend, not through the years or even now. I don’t think you realised when those feelings changed. My thoughts of you now are far less innocent than they ever were._

_You should know how I hated Viktor Krum in fourth year. He was the only other person to notice what I did – that you are so incredibly beautiful, Hermione, inside and out. You rend me near speechless any time I look at you. The ball came, then everyone knew what you were – what you still are._

_Then there are the other parts, the parts I try to keep down out of respect for you but that bubble to the surface anyway. It’s a wonder I can interact with you at all, really – that swotty voice of yours gets me harder than I’ve ever been in my life, and I only need to see you lick the jam from your lips at breakfast to have my mind racing to places it ought not to go so early in the morning. But it’s not only that: there’s how badly I want to kiss you, to hold you in my arms, and how you dominate my dreams at night. What I wouldn’t give to taste you but once, to know how you feel all around me. But I want so much more, too, more than you’ll ever know._

_I don’t think you know. I’m not sure I want you to know. Your obliviousness is the most exquisite torture I can imagine._

_Sweet dreams, Mo grá_

She read the words over and over again. Perhaps they would make sense on the second read through, or maybe even the third. She slumped in her seat; no such luck. 

“Hermione?” Neville’s familiar baritone called over the quiet. Hermione heard a hissed admonishment from Pince, then a whispered apology, but she couldn’t bring herself to turn towards him. Her cheeks felt like they were on fire.

“Hermione?” He was right behind her then, and his voice grew more frantic. “Are you all right? You’re all flushed. Should I take you to the hospital wing?” 

His eyes were wide, worried, looking down upon her with so much concern that she felt guilty for ignoring him.

“I… I’m fine.” She folded the tissue into a tiny square and shoved it into her pocket. Her cheeks were still bright and flaming, her heartbeat still pounding a rock show beneath her ribs, and knowing that the note was still so close, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to calm down for the rest of the evening. “Just fine.”

****

XXX

In hindsight, she had been naïve to think her admirer – though she loathed to call them that – would stop at one note.

For every subject, for each recommended further reading text, there was another note waiting, written in the same steady hand, on the same pink tissue paper. For close to a month, Hermione collected them. She kept them in a chest on her bedside, pulling them out at night to read and read and read again before she went to sleep. Some notes were light, innocent almost, full of wistful yearnings of what he might say to her should he ever gather the courage. 

Then there were others. Others that were far more… distracting. 

Some, Hermione would need to slip her fingers under the waistband of her knickers to seek out her throbbing clit, to quell the rising neediness in her blood. She brought herself to some of the most intense orgasms she’d ever experienced under her own hand with the help of those notes and her mysterious stranger’s honeyed words.

The newest note came from a potions text. Hermione hadn’t read it yet. There wasn’t enough time to savour the exciting words she knew would be written on it. Instead, she twisted it through her fingers as she waited for Neville to arrive for their standing study date.

Date. When had she begun to call it that?

“Hermione!”

She startled, falling with all the grace of a newborn hippo from her chair to a heap on the floor. She heard a low chuckle, then a hand she’d spent far too much time studying as of late appeared in front of her face.

“You know I called your name half a dozen times just now?” Neville said, eyes twinkling.

“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. She took his hand and allowed him to pull her upright and back to her seat. “I was… distracted.”

“So I’ve noticed.” He took the spare seat beside her and set his bag down on the floor. “Anything you want to talk about?”

Hermione opened her mouth, hesitated, then closed it. “No, thank you,” she said. “It’s nothing important.”

Neville shrugged and pulled a sheath of parchment from his bag. “If you change your mind…” He left the sentence hanging.

“I’ll find you first,” she promised. “So, what are you working on tonight?”

“Transfiguration essay,” he told her with a grimace. “The one about alchemical properties when transfiguring metals.” He shot her an amused look from the corner of his eye. “The one I’m sure you finished weeks ago.”

“It’s as though I’m the only person in the world who likes to be prepared ahead of time!” she exclaimed, her tone full of faux astonishment. “Besides, it’s not as though you don’t complete the Herbology assignments well ahead of time.”

Neville laughed. “I’m a professional procrastinator with these other things, Hermione. I work better under the pressure of a mounting deadline. That said, I’ll take any help you’re offering.”

She sniffed. “Give me one good reason why I should help you?”

He smiled at her again, batting long, thick eyelashes. They brushed his cheeks whenever he blinked – shouldn’t they tangle more? “Because I asked ever so nicely?” He scooted the chair closer and held his hands together as though in prayer. “Please, Hermione?” he wheedled.

She sighed, but put on a smile. “Fine. What do you have so far?”

There was a definite ease to studying with Neville, a comfortable sort of give and take that she’d never established, despite all her efforts, with Harry and Ron. Granted, though, Neville had never had saving the world and Quidditch permanently on the brain, either.

It was close to ten at night before they broke to return to Gryffindor Tower. It was one of the things Hermione lamented the most about no longer being a prefect and having missed the opportunity to be head girl – the constant threat of curfew looming above her head. What she wouldn’t give for complete carte blanche over her waking hours. She’d probably sleep in the library if she thought she could get away with it.

They chattered and laughed about odd little things on the way back, then gave the password to the Fat Lady and clambered through the portrait hole.

They paused in front of the scarlet flames, holding each other’s gaze until the last possible second. The feeling of something larger – something important – seemed to flitter between them, broken in seconds by the sound of a pair playing Exploding Snap in the corner.

Hermione shook her head. “Good night, Neville,” she said. 

He smiled again. That late at night, his smiles were something warm, to be savoured, and Hermione drank it in until the very last moment. “Sweet dreams, Hermione,” he said, tossing a quick wave over his shoulder before he disappeared down a corridor towards the boy’s dorms and out of sight.

The note in her pocket burned through to her skin with the anticipation it was causing. How she’d gone so many hours without touching it or looking at it she had no idea. Hermione barely glanced at the others in the common room as she darted up the steps to the girl’s dormitories, to the room she shared with just Parvarti Patil.

The room was mercifully empty when Hermione pushed the door aside. Hermione supposed Parvarti must have snuck out to the Ravenclaw dorms to be with her sister, where she spent most of her time now that Inter-house Unity prevailed above all else.

As an added measure, Hermione cast a locking spell and a repelling charm on the door after she closed it; she refused to be disrupted by anyone until she was finished.

She kicked off her shoes and tugged her robe and jumper off, dropping them to the floor, then tumbled to the mattress. Shifting to a seated position, Hermione took the note out of her pocket, settled back against her pillows, unfolded the paper, and read:

_Hermione,_

_I had a dream about us last night._

_I dreamt we were naked in a field, on a bed of wildflowers. The pinks of the petals matched your flushed skin perfectly as I licked through your folds, my tongue piercing your sweet cunt and feasting upon your honey, while you screamed your pleasure to the cloudless sky. I could taste you forever, darling. I could get drunk on you, I’m sure of it._

_Dreams of you make me restless. I cannot sleep, eat, or drink for thoughts of you. You exhaust me completely, in the best possible ways._

_What would you do, if I were to reach over and touch you? Would you welcome me? I can only hope you would._

_Sweet dreams, Mo grá_

Her breath rattled and her body thrummed as she folded the note back into its square and clutched it tight to her chest. It was an interesting proposition: what would she say if her mysterious stranger were to approach her? If he were as… articulate in person as he was in his notes, Hermione feared she wouldn’t be able to tell him no. She would eagerly spread her legs and welcome him within her without a thought to spare. And what scared her the most was that the idea didn’t scare her at all.

What silliness this person was weaving in her mind!

She read the letter again, and she could see the scene he was painting so vividly. She closed her eyes and pictured a crown of glossy, dark hair between her thighs and a tongue tracing adorations around her lower lips, words of love whispered against hot skin. 

Hermione’s eyes snapped open as she lunged for the curtain surrounding her bed and tugged it closed. She fell back against her pillow, tugged her knickers down and spread her legs to the cold night air. 

At the first touch of her fingers to her clit, Hermione gasped. She was so slick her fingers slipped through her folds, finding no purchase or anchor. She kept up a fractured rhythm of clumsy circles over her pulsing nub as she gasped out a litany of moans and sighs. It felt like no time at all had passed before the familiar, welcome tension was rising and snapping within her.

She pressed her eyes shut tight as she came, willing herself not to picture Neville’s face grinning up at her from the juncture between her thighs.

****

XXX

In the final day of classes before Hogwarts broke for the Christmas break, Sinistra was the only professor to recommend a title for further reading. Hermione navigated the darkened halls of the library with practised ease, stopping just short of sprinting as she dodged the stacks of precariously balanced books that littered the paths until she reached the far back wall dedicated to the Astronomy texts.

Only someone had beat her to it. 

She couldn’t make out the figure through the criss-crossing of shadows, but they were undoubtedly male. A book was held in their hands, and the rustle of pages fluttering filled the silent air.

Then, she caught the scent of cinnamon, and she knew exactly who the stranger was.

“Neville?” she called out, as quietly as she could manage. Neville looked up and froze, his eyes wide and bright in the glow of the candlelight. He hastily pushed the book back into the shelf as she moved closer.

“What are you doing here, Neville?” she asked. “I thought you said you were going to the greenhouses after dinner.”

“Uh, recommended reading?” he replied, his unsure tone turning the statement into a question.

“Oh.” She paused. “I didn’t know anyone else actually read the recommended texts. I thought I was the only one.”

“Uh, yeah.” He gestured at the shelf. “I figured… yeah.”

“Well, that’s great!” She nodded, as if to solidify the fact, or perhaps to draw attention away from the fact that he hadn’t been so aloof with her since they were children. “Maybe we could discuss them sometime.”

“No!” he yelped. “I mean… no – no, thank you. Or maybe. I don’t know…”

In the shard of light that cut across his face, Hermione could see his upper lip was dotted with sweat. “Neville?” She took a step closer. “Are you all right?”

“I… I’m fine, Hermione.” He took a deep breath and edged past her, his shoulder brushing against hers. Even through the layers of fabric, she could feel his warmth. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Of course,” she said through a breathy exhale. She listened as his steps echoed on the stone floor and disappeared into the dark.

Once she was assured her solitude, Hermione darted towards the shelf and pulled the heavy tome forth. She barely glanced at the cover as she flipped it open.

Sure enough, there it was: the small square of pink tissue wedged behind the front cover.

_Did he see the note?_

A realisation washed over her so powerful her knees buckled. Her heart skipped a beat, then seemed to stop entirely.

_Is he the one who put it there?_

****

XXX

_Hermione,_

_Merry Christmas, darling. I have likely gifted you with something already, but you have so enjoyed the gift of my words as of late, haven’t you?_

_Imagine: the fire in the Gryffindor common room. It’s late, we’re alone, the fire has burned down to little more than embers, casting a ruby glow about the room._

_I’ve got you lying against that rug in the middle of the room. It’s itchy, but you don’t care: not when you’re flushed and sweating, writhing senselessly with my head between your thighs._

_You gasp when I thrust two fingers inside you, pumping them as I lick your clit like it’s a sugar quill. You scream for more, harder, faster, but I tell you no. You’ll not feel my cock until you’ve come at least twice under my fingers and tongue._

_Then you’re there, sobbing as wave after crashing wave rolls through you. It feels good, doesn’t it? Like all the tension that keeps your body wound so tight has just disappeared, taking every other thought that fills your mind with it. All thoughts but those of me and how I play your body like a violin, plucking only a few strings to bring forth the most beautiful symphony._

_Then I’m there, leaning over you, my arms braced either side of your head as I duck my lips down to yours. You taste so sweet, like honey and tea. Your lips are home for me, Hermione. The only thing I could ever need or want._

_I swallow the gasp you make as I push into you. That first look you give me when you open your eyes has me nearly coming on the spot. You feel so warm and wet and tight, made just for me. Clichés, to be sure, but no less true, and no less meaningful. Your lips are home, but your body is heaven._

_The sounds you make are intoxicating. I wonder what I have to do to draw more of them out of you. Do I circle my hips like this? Do I grind against you like that? Do I need to tease you, or give you what you want? What makes you scream? What makes you sob? I want to map the softness of you, your valleys and curves. I want to learn the vastness and the minutia of you. I want to exhaust myself on you, Hermione, if you’ll let me._

_I want to lose myself in you, until I taste, breath, feel, know nothing else but you. I want to hear what you sound like when I move inside you, to know how you feel when I bring you up and over the edge with me. I want to know the look on your face as you come harder than you ever have in your life._

_I want there to be no misunderstandings between us, love._

_Sweet dreams, and Merry Christmas, Mo grá_

****

XXX

Hermione wasn’t sure she liked the strange, muddled feeling that came with being unsure about something. She watched Neville for days, waiting for a clue, something that might give her a hint. But nothing! Not so much as a peep or a rustle. She even stole glimpses into his open bag on the odd occasions that she was able to, but there was no hint of pink stationery, which was rather laughable of her to think to begin with. Neville was a progressively minded man, but even he wouldn’t be caught dead in or with anything pink.

The notes continued, of course, even with no clue as to the sender, still detailing the progressively debauched nature of his thoughts for her, and still sending her into a spiral of very satisfying orgasms. Even the Christmas and New Years’ break came and went with no disruption in the stream of notes, which narrowed down the field of possible suitors, true, but nowhere near enough. It was getting to the point where she would flush and grow uncomfortably damp in her knickers whenever a professor would suggest the texts for further reading.

She would not have this mysterious person conditioning her like some randy version of Pavlov’s dog!

It had to stop. Hermione knew there was no way of knowing who was leaving the notes short of catching them in the act, and that was exactly what she intended on doing. With any luck, she would be fast enough to beat him to the book with her own note in return. He would find it, and he would know the game was over.

She didn’t have stationery anywhere near as nice as his – she tended to cover the colour of the parchment with her scribbles, so she never saw the point in anything nicer – so she scrawled her note, in her usual tiny penmanship, onto a scrap piece of torn parchment:

_Dear Mystery Author,_

_I think it’s time we stopped this charade. If you desire me as you claim, then let us drop all pretences. Face me properly and allow me to know you._

_I’ll be waiting nearby._

_With bated breath,  
Hermione_

She slipped the missive behind the front cover of the recommended Charms text and replaced it back in its place on the shelf. She found a nice little nook that concealed her whereabouts, but allowed her a generous view of the comings and goings, and ducked out of sight.

Now, there wasn’t much else to do but wait.

But she didn’t have to wait very long.

She doubted even a minute had passed before the shadowed figure entered the small alcove and skimmed his fingers over the spines of the books. He plucked the right one off the shelf, and she could see in the light, in his hands was the familiar piece of pink tissue. Her heart skipped one, two, three beats at the thought that months of naughty notes and blinding orgasms was finally about to come to a head.

Hermione was silent as she watched the note she wrote tumble from the book. The figure made a curious noise and ducked down to pick it up. Her heart leapt into her throat as the figure unfolded it and held it under a silently-cast _Lumos_.

In the space of mere seconds, the figure tensed, dropped his wand, and turned frantically, looking around every which way before his gaze landed on her, and hers on his. 

“Neville,” she croaked. “It _was_ you…”

“Hermione,” he began. He held himself so tight, his voice so restrained, that Hermione felt certain he must be quivering.

He took a step closer, then another and another, until a mere foot of space separated them. “I can explain.”

She cocked her head to the side. “Explain what?”

“Explain what,” he repeated, a strained chuckle escaping his lips. “A thousand things. Merlin knows where I should begin.”

“Do you regret leaving me those notes?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I just…” He growled and rubbed the heels of his hands on his eyes. “I could have been less creepy about it.”

“It’s not creepy,” she reassured him. “Unorthodox, perhaps –”

“– No, it’s extremely creepy –”

“– And very odd at first, uncomfortable, even –”

“–You have no idea –”

“–But–”

“–But what?” he questioned, his tone short and clipped, and wavering just slightly. It occurred to her then that this was the most exasperated she’d ever seen him.

Hermione was sure her cheeks were flaming when she replied, “But you were right when you said I’d enjoyed your gifts of words so far.”

In the dim light, she saw his eyes brighten with a combination of anticipation and wariness. “You… you liked them?”

She nodded, suddenly shy. “I did. They were nearly poetic sometimes, and so vivid. Plus, I’ve always loved the written word. How did… how did you learn how to write like that?”

“That’s what you want to know?” he teased, though he still sounded unsure. “My mum, actually. Before… everything, she had a fondness for love poems. I still read some to her when I visit. I added my own, uh… embellishments to the letters, though.”

And he read poetry to his ill mother. She stood in place with her mouth agape for a long moment before she asked, more frustrated than she intended, “Are you from another planet?”

“Huh?”

“Do you have any faults at all?”

“Excuse me?”

“Is there anything you do badly, something that might otherwise impeach this state of perfection you’ve apparently reached behind my back?”

Neville scratched his head, looking more adorably confused than ever. “I, uh… I’m not perfect, Hermione, not by a long shot.”

“I would beg to differ.” Hermione took the final step to close the space between them. Now, there was only an inch, if that, of light separating their bodies.

“You write beautifully, you grasp every bit of my imagination and make me yearn for things I never knew I wanted. You study with me and you’re quiet and you have impeccable manners and my cat likes you. You’re also very attractive, and although I feel very, very shallow saying it, it’s true. You don’t regale me with tales of Quidditch that I couldn’t care less about, and you actually listen to me and have proper opinions on what I think. You’re the only pure-blood who didn’t treat me any differently for being Muggle-born when I arrived here, and you helped me more than you know during that train ride first year, even if I was a terrible swot. You’re sweet, compassionate, inordinately kind, and I think you’re just about perfect exactly as you are –”

Then his lips were on hers, warm and dry and soft. He began to move, gently at first, coaxing her lips into a slow dance. Hermione felt everything in her mind fizzle away into nothingness as her entire world narrowed down to the nearly magical feeling of Neville’s lips against hers. When his tongue reached out and shyly traced the line of her lower lip, she sighed and felt her knees buckle. Neville wrapped his warm arms around her waist and pulled her to him, holding her upright. 

How long they stayed like that she couldn’t begin to guess. When Neville licked his way into her mouth and gently tasted every crevice of her, just like his letters had promised, time dwindled down to something wholly incalculable. Her head felt light and full of fluff by the time he pulled away, his lips red and swollen. She couldn’t imagine hers looking any better.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “That was awfully sweet of you to say. All of it.”

“I’m returning all the compliments you’ve given me in your notes,” she returned, just as quiet. “But you’re welcome.”

“But you should know that I cannot, for the life of me, whistle. Or carry a tune, for that matter. Don’t ever ask me to sing. You’ll only be disappointed.”

Hermione looked at him for a moment. He looked so earnest just then, that something warm and wonderful took root in her heart. She laughed. “That’s not a fault.”

“I also snore. And I have a tendency to talk in my sleep. Cormac says your name’s on my lips most often, though.”

“Really?”

He laughed, a warm, rumbling sound. “Really.”

“I think you ought to know… I think I feel the same. I did before, too. Before you started sending the notes.”

His answering grin was something to light a room, bright and happy. “Really?”

“Really,” she answered with a shy grin. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer we work our way up. I’m not sure I’m ready –”

“We’ll go as slow as you need,” he swiftly assured her. “It’s a shock to me, too, believe me. I just… I had to get those thoughts on paper, and the idea of giving them to you anonymously…”

“I know.” And she really, definitely did. “It was thrilling for me, too. But in the meantime,” she ventured, her cheeks heating, “I wouldn’t mind kissing you some more.”

She would never, in a thousand lifetimes, get sick of his smiles. “That,” he whispered, his lips coming to cover hers again, “ _Mo grá_ , can certainly be managed.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed this! I'm ally147writes on Tumblr if you'd like to come say hello :)


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